


Persevere

by Alvaerele



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: And thus holds titles Silencer Listener and Dovahkiin, F/M, MC is a vampire, Obviously some implied romance here, Planning on exploring it more with Lucien as a ghost in Skyrim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9856865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alvaerele/pseuds/Alvaerele
Summary: Series of oneshots involving female MC (Dovahkiin/Hero of Kvatch) and her life in the Dark Brotherhood, as well as her relationship with Lucien Lachance.





	1. Goodbye

            The measure of someone’s will is often determined by their capacity to persevere even through the roughest of waters, the loneliest of nights, and the most unfair of losses.

            This one maxim has guided Arianne through her meager 19 years of life. Through 19 years of the roughest of waters, the loneliest of nights, and the most unfair of losses. The roughest waters came to her through the perils of dodging Legionnaires for months, until her fated capture. The loneliest of nights came when she was locked up in that Gods-forsaken prison, endlessly taunted by that insufferable Dunmer. However, she hadn’t known a loss as unfair as this one. Never could one experience shake her life, her will, her being, to its very core.

            One experience came close. One she shudders to think of. That one night where her blade was to be turned on family, on her blood and loved ones. Who was she to reject the Purification? If not being simply Lucien’s orders, Lucien was, by proxy, the will of Sithis – and the will of the Night Mother. Those orders, no matter how horrible, terrible, heartbreaking they were… they were not up for negotiation.

            So on that night, she cut down those she loved most, a family she had come to claim her own, after living a meager 19 years without such a privilege. What a horrid sight, she had come to wonder – watching a famed assassin of the Dark Brotherhood murder her companions with tears in her eyes. With retched, boiling pain, guilt, anger piling up in her throat, screaming apologies in tandem with knife swipes. When the carnage came to a close, and she was left in the wake of her shame, her Sithis-ordained Purification, she felt the emptiest she could ever remember.

            But, even then, she had one truth left to her: she was not alone.

            She hated Lucien for a while. Whenever their paths crossed, she was curt; always cutting their already-brief affairs short. Lucien wasn’t one to object, he was already a more reclusive sort, so the unspoken tension agreed with his lifestyle.

            Although, at some point, he had to take action.

            Arianne became erratic – self-destructive, almost. Reckless. Having been known for her clean sweeps, in-and-out of a home without the slightest hint of her ever being there, had come to contribute to her fame, both within the guild, and out. This is what made Lucien so keen on her: her adroitness, her cleanness, and her expertise. A force truly to be reckoned with. But the Purification had shattered her. She would drop signs of her destruction at every turn, leaving a trail of evidence that led to her, and by extension, the guild.

            And that confrontation had taught her a valuable lesson.

            _You mustn’t put your carelessness before the safety of the Brotherhood!_

 _You want to talk about_ safety _, when you asked me to murder our Brothers and Sisters!_

            The meeting went on for hours, it felt like. With so much more emotion and volume than their previous encounters would hold. Yet it ended so sweetly, like the promise of safety after awaking from a nightmare. She remembered his words, a light in the darkness encroaching on her happiness: _You are not alone._

“I’ve been having to shoulder this burden for so long, Lucien. Knowing that the pain I feel at their loss is _my fault_.” Her hands clasped over her face as she stumbled a few feet away from the Speaker. “It was easier to blame you – you gave me the orders, you’re the one to hate.”

            He was unflinching, but her remark caused a shift in his eyes; was it pain?

            Still, she continued. “I needed them. And they’re gone. And, now, I’m alone. That sense of kinship and security is gone. I’m alone. I’m alone.”

            Face still covered with trembling hands, she was blind. But not deaf – two footsteps sounded and he was before her. His hands, clothed in comforting suede, grabbed hers and unmasked her face.

            He then could see the tears that stung her eyes. When he spoke, she had never heard so much care and softness in his rough, deep voice. It felt like the cold embrace of the night air, telling her she was safe. _Safe_.

            “My Silencer, you have failed to see, _you are not alone_.”

 

            She had never told him her true feelings. They were planted in her that night, a seed that would blossom at an alarming rate, a feeling she could now describe as love. Maybe she was naïve. Every woman she knew at her age had a first love that wasn’t meant to be.

            Or so they say.

            And yet, there she was, in the moment she could define as the most unfair of losses. And she couldn’t help but hold on to the one truth Lucien had taught her: _she was not alone_.

            It was on her request – order, really – that she be alone. In that miserable shack of a home, the walls saturated with the stench of his blood. Everything was coated with reminders that he was gone. Reminders that she was alone. The last few months had taught her to value the gift of blood, both as a servant to Sithis, and as a freshly-turned Vampire (thanks to her dear friend, Vicente.) However, vomit rose up her throat as she smelled the blood of Lucien in every nook and cranny. It permeated the tiniest fractures in the wood floors, and the minutest of splinters in the furniture. He was everywhere. Yet he was nowhere.

            Silenced, she pondered. Her Speaker had been wiped clean from mortality. He was one with the Void.

            Many a time she contemplated joining him. She had secured the safety of Cyrodiil, the Oblivion crisis had been deterred, and her sacrificial duty had been fulfilled. Surely she had spent her years well, her purpose clear and completed.

            But a voice nagged at the back of Arianne’s mind.

            _Not yet._

            With a clean snap his body fell from the rafters. She watched from her perch in the ceiling, grimacing at the weighty crunch of his body crashing into the floorboards. Throat tightening in anguish, she collected herself, and joined him on the ground. With one swift movement, she heaved his body over her shoulder, distracting her mind from the disfigured corpse, trying not to remember who she was holding, and that he had been completely anonymized through the other Speakers’ needless violence.

            When she had left the building, Shadowmere greeted her with a dismayed whinny.

            Arianne’s smile was grim, and knowing. “I’m going to miss him, too, Shadowmere.” With her free hand she brushed through the mare’s flowing mane, comforting her as the loss of her owner settled in her.

            The horse steadied, and bowed her head. Arianne flung the corpse onto the saddle, and hopped on. Lucien’s body was settled loosely in front of her, and she kept him in place with one gentle hand.

 

            After an hour’s trek, they arrived at an apple farm. It wasn’t an unreasonable distance from Bruma, which the Nord was thankful for. The task had been weighing on her heavily. Though she had a week’s time to come to terms with his death, knowing she would finally be burying him felt so final. A stinging pain came surging back, holding onto her heart like burning fire.

            The farm was quaint, if one word was to describe it. Small, homely. The orchard it housed was no more than one half-acre. A sublime scent of sweet fruit and fresh flowers cleansed the air, and for a moment, her soul.

            She was reminded of him.

            “Watch him for me, please,” she asked her companion. The mare complied with a snort, and Arianne hopped off, and knocked on the door. No answer.

            Expertly, she picked the lock and peered in. No-one was home. There were no signs of anyone having been there for months, either.

            Perfect.

            On a whim, the woman picked one red apple, and gave it to Shadowmere for her troubles. And with that, she reached for the shovel, and set out to find the right spot.

 

            Another hour passed. The span of trees ended at what was a steep decline in the hillside, and opened up to a spectacular view of the valley before. The sun had begun to set, coloring the sky candy pinks and reds, a sight that calmed the grieving assassin.

            Her deliberations had resulted in picking the tree closest to the drop-off. As a secondary measure, she plucked one apple for a quick taste. Crisp, full, and sweet as syrup. Lucien would’ve loved it.

            This was it.

            Arianne found herself lost in her thoughts. The finality of the moment had dawned on her. Lucien was dead, and soon to be buried.

            She was known to be emotional, but damn, if she wouldn’t mourn that man, who would? Does the Dread Father weep? Does the Night Mother sorrow? If there was ever a person deserving of their grieving, it was him.

            And so, she wailed. She screamed, and bellowed, and choked. All in the name of Lucien Lachance.

            At the end of the night, he was in the ground. Arianne watched with sorrow in her tired eyes, gaze cast upon the sky as it developed into cooler shades of blue, and the stars came out in droves.    

            When it comes down to it, she would’ve much rather he be alive than the Brotherhood saved. But she would never admit that. Too much weighed on her as the revered Listener. And she, once again, had to shoulder such a burden.

            Shadowmere collapsed at her side, nuzzling her snout into Arianne’s clasped hands. And once more, she was reminded.

            _You are not alone_.


	2. Lead the Way

        It seemed almost as if fate itself had brought her back to Skyrim.

        Fate, or a bug-eyed weasel of a snitch who couldn’t keep his mouth shut after a contract-turned-wrong.

        Still, the Nord felt a pang of sadness as the carriage drew closer to Helgen. She was born just outside Riverwood, and would often travel to Helgen as a child urchin to beg for gold.

        It felt strange to her to know that was over 200 years ago.

        Arianne had lived for so long, and yet retained her youthful glow. That was the benefit of turning in her teenage years. Despite that, she found the years dredged on like infinity, and consulted with many alchemists and mages on the prospect of curing her vampirism.

        She could never place why, but every attempt at a cure always ended in her giving up. There was a primordial force within her begging, pleading that she stay a vampire. Just for a little while longer.

        And while that voice had no reason, it was quite convincing. After having left the Brotherhood so long ago, she found the quiet life suited her. And if infinity liked her companionship, she wasn’t the type to refuse. And so, Arianne lived indefinitely, yet endlessly.

        “Rorikstead… I’m from Rorikstead.”

        Her ears pricked at the prisoner before her, his face caked with grime, and a hollow look in his eyes. What a familiar gaze – the eyes of a man meeting his end.

        She, too, was meeting her end. Of course, that’s what the two blonds flanking her would think, as well as the Rorikstead native. And the Imperial dogs that decided she, the very Hero of Kvatch, deserved the block.

        Arianne didn’t intend on losing her head that day, oh no. It’s quite hard to contain the unrelenting power of a lifelong assassin. (As well as mage and mercenary; she had picked up a few hobbies in the last 200 or so years.) Methodically plotting her escape, her attention was cut short when the carriage lulled to a stop, and she was forced off her seat.

        Helgen was a city of age and pride. The citizens turned up their noses at her presence, oh so alike her first days in Helgen, a penniless child beggar, kicked and spat at for asking for enough to feed herself. Despite her better judgment, she aimed a sour face at one of her sordid onlookers.

        The man from Rorikstead made the poor choice of running away. It didn’t take a legionnaire too long to lodge an arrow into his backside. The poor thing crumpled immediately, all life dissipating into thin air. A shame, really, she mused. He could’ve made his escape with her.

        The vampire was the second to be seen to. The Imperial before her had no recollection of her, as she was not even registered on his documents. _How odd_ , she wondered.

        After a short, and somewhat forlorn exchange, she was set off on her way to her demise.

 

* * *

 

        “This way, prisoner!”

        “Are you coming, kinsman?”

        At a crossroads. That’s where Arianne found herself, after the dramatic turn of events the evening had produced. With a dragon still scorching the earth behind her, and cries of pain and death energizing the air around her, she was found, somehow, at a crossroads.

        The Nord was kind to her, and seemed to have her best interests in mind. Ralof. That was his name. He beckoned her hurriedly. How could she turn down a fellow detainee, and one that would risk his life to get her to safety?

        And yet, the Imperial guard, Hadvar. He was going through the same trouble for her, despite their antagonistic roles. An Imperial officer, offering to save a Nord prisoner. There was something poetic about it.

        But Arianne seldom read poetry, and couldn’t find herself trusting of the Imperial. 200 years had tainted the Imperial image for her, and being in Skyrim reignited a nationalistic flame inside. She was a Nord, and to the Nords she would go.

 _No offense, Lucien_ , she said silently to the Void.

 

* * *

     

“No offense, Lucien, but I don’t think I need a horse,” said the woman, eyeing the daunting beast with a sense of urgency. “And I don’t think this particular mare has taken to me.”

        “Nonsense, Silencer. Shadowmere’s merely sizing you up. I’m certain she’ll see in you what I’ve seen.”

        It was just outside Fort Farragut, and Lucien had, as promised, brought his protégé the famed steed of the Dark Brotherhood: a beautiful creature named Shadowmere. She stood tall, with pride bared under her watchful, red eyes. This was a being that had lived a long time, and could clearly know what was unbeknownst to even her oldest of masters.

        A relic. That’s what she was. A relic of time, a relic of murder, a relic of the Dread Mother’s prestige.

        “Either way,” she huffed, taking a tentative step back, “I don’t want to take my chances. I have a bad track record with horses.”

        Arianne attempted another back-step, but it was right into the arms of Lucien. Surprise overwhelmed her, _when did he get there?_

        His fingers curled gently around her shoulders, squeezing for reassurance. He leaned in to offer a bit of advice: “She prefers it when you are commanding. Respect is earned only for the powerful.” A sly grin carved into his cheeks, and Arianne nodded slowly.

        It was only with a few deep breaths that the Silencer could conjure up the determination to approach the mare once more, this time investing all her energy into empowering her presence. Her shoulders squared, and her eyes narrowed. All emotion drained from her features, and she took proud, long steps forward, arm outstretched to meet Shadowmere’s mouth.

        Arianne steadied a few inches before the animal, awaiting acceptance. The creature was clearly sizing her up; head bowing up and down to assess the assassin. However, it was with a loud snort that Shadowmere announced her decision. She nuzzled her snout into Arianne’s bared palm.

        Without hesitation, the teen grinned.

        “She likes me,” she said almost silently, turning around to aim a gladdened look at her Speaker. His eyes smiled.

        “As she should. You’re a valuable member of the Brotherhood. She recognizes a leader when she sees one.”

        Brimming with pride, Arianne’s cheeks flushed pink.

 

* * *

       

        Adventure always had a way of finding Arianne. A siren’s call for all things dangerous and glorious. Once already had she saved the world, from the very destruction that was Mehrunes Dagon. Whether it was fate, or it was the universe’s way of making her feel important, adventure was never of short supply in Arianne’s life.

        And that may have been why, as she fled the waterlogged cavern exit from Helgen, she was eclipsed by a fearsome dragon overhead.

        “By Akatosh…” she murmured, eyes widening as the beast flew to some far off land, leaving behind its destruction. “That’s a dragon.”

        “Aye,” replied Ralof, mere metres behind her. “Something must be disturbing the Nine if dead legends are reclaiming the skies.” He sheathed his handaxe, and wiped some sweat from his brow with a blood-stained forearm. “Lass, are you heading any particular way? I imagine the Jarl should hear of this.”

        Shock had overcome her, and it took a moment to register that her companion was addressing her. Once again, adventure sought her out.

        “Yes,” she responded at last. “I will inform the Jarl.”

        “Fancy an escort?” he asked with a gaudy smirk. “I’m heading up that way anyway.”

        She nodded. It wasn’t necessarily that she needed the help, she was centuries older and wiser, and yes, more powerful than he.

        But centuries can be lonely, and she would take any company she could.

        “Lead the way.”

  



End file.
